


Mean Low Water

by pyrimidine



Category: Actor RPF, Music RPF, The Killers
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-05
Updated: 2011-09-05
Packaged: 2017-10-23 11:31:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/249832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pyrimidine/pseuds/pyrimidine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5AhU12zC8fc">Crossfire</a> AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mean Low Water

**Encounter 1: Army Special Forces**

She's been on three planes and flown to who-knows-where (that's a lie; she knows it's south-southeast), only to be pushed out at 10,000 feet with a katana, her homemade compass still stuffed into her shoe, and a parachute that probably had its heyday during WWII. A water bottle had also been Velcroed to her side, but that rips away during the freefall.

The target is an underground bunker - because really, when is it not? - and the people are sloppy, hesitating and coming at her with the exact same tactics as she makes her way through a long hallway. Three of the four people guarding the hostage get knocked out in the initial scuffle; the fourth is easy to run through when he tries to extract his own weapon.

"Hi," says the hostage into the ensuing silence.

She stares for a second. He's in shock, probably. "Hi," she says back, cutting the ropes and helping to bear his weight as they limp outside.

It's dusk, the sun shining brilliantly off a motorcycle parked about twenty yards away. It still has the keys in. She runs her hand over the seat and shoots the hostage a glance. "Well, jeez, I think you're a good luck charm."

He laughs. "Hey, so, what's your name?" he asks. There's a line of blood running over his temple, reaching all the way down past the curve of his jaw. He doesn't seem to notice or care.

Her driver's license back home says Rochelle; the three passports stashed in the glove compartment of her Chevy Nova say Kimberley, Catherine, and Frances; her mom used to call her Cee-Cee.

"Charlize," she says before she knows what she's doing. There's an initial flare of panic, but it dies down quickly. It's only the name typewritten onto her birth certificate, and god knows where that is.

"I'm Brandon. Thanks for all that back there." He gestures vaguely behind him.

Extraction missions usually come with lots of screaming and passing out instead of introductions. Still, all she asks is, "How do you feel about riding on the back?"

"Very good. I feel very good about it," Brandon answers. He swings his leg over and wraps his arms securely around her waist when she settles onto the seat as well. When she looks down, she sees the fourth finger of his right hand sticking out at a crazy angle.

"Your metacarpophalangeal joint is broken," she points out.

His chin is poking against her shoulderblade. "All things considered, I think I'm okay with that," he says.

 

 **Encounter 2: FBI**

"You?" she yells over the sound of the generator exploding. There's a bright flash of orange and a confetti of sparks raining down everywhere.

"I know, right?" he yells back. "I'm really sorry."

Charlize knows she's only seen Brandon twice, ever, but the fact that he's been eerily calm both times is kind of irritating. Maybe it's the jet lag that's got her feeling a bit mean, but she lets the last guy get a little too close before picking up a crowbar and flinging it at his head.

"Wow, shit, that was -- wow," stammers Brandon. Half of his right eyebrow has been singed off. Up close, he actually looks kind of dazed. Charlize feels bad.

"Sorry," she shrugs.

Something in his expression shifts. "Hey, it's you," he says, as if just now processing it. When he smiles, Charlize feels kind of warm. She doesn't think she can blame it on the roaring fire.

"I've kind of got a crush on you. Is that inappropriate? I'm sorry, they gave me some of that sodium what's-it. The truth serum," he explains, then amends, "A lot. They gave me a lot, actually."

She smiles crookedly. It's a genuine one.

"Huge crush," he confirms.

 

 **Encounter 5: CIA**

Charlize grabs the material of her dress, rips a split on both sides, and says, "I thought you'd climbed out the bathroom window."

"Don't be insecure," Brandon teases. His tie is gone but he's still wearing his button down. It's stained with dirt and blood. "How much do I owe you for the dinner and the lifesaving?"

"And maybe the dress repair? No worries." Her katana swings through the air and the ropes around his wrists coil onto the floor all at once. She rethinks. "Actually, a twenty for the dinner would be nice. I need to take my shoes to a cobbler later."

He grins. "I know a great one."

 

 **Encounter 9: CIA Covert Ops**

"Listen, don't be mad -- "

"Don't," she interrupts and elbows a guy in the face at the same time.

Sixteen hours ago, they'd had a fight in the car. Fourteen hours ago, Brandon had been lying right beside her. Eight hours ago, she'd woken up to find his side of the bed occupied only by cold sheets. She's read articles advising couples not to go to sleep angry, which seems stupid and impossible, but if the outcome is this, then maybe she can work on it.

To his credit, he doesn't tell her not to be mad again, or ask if she's mad, or why, or any of that. He just leads the way to the truck. After the odometer has clicked in a few miles, she puts her arm over his shoulders and he leans into it.

 

 **Encounter 16: --**

She has a knapsack slung and knotted over her shoulders. The passports in the front pocket say Vincente San Miguel and Ellie Gurnsey. There's $10,000 sewed into the inner lining. The truck outside has a full tank of gas. Brandon's alive. She's alive.

She does a jump-spin kick, practically feeling the molars cracking against her foot; Brandon smiles his sheepish smile, and it's the same as it always is.


End file.
